Acceptable Conversation
by a certain slant of light
Summary: Martha has finally found a subject the Doctor is more evasive of than Rose. ჯ Ten, Martha.


**Author's Note:** For the Time Lord Tidbits Challenge on LJ. The tidbit was: _Discussions of regeneration among Gallifreyans appears to be similar to sex amongst humans (not good table manners)._ Also, it's a 1969 ("Blink") fic. References to the episodes "42" and "The Girl in the Fireplace."

PLEASE READ THE ABOVE OR THE FIC WILL MAKE LITTLE SENSE! THANK YOU!

Many thanks to my betas, the wonderful **azuredamsel** and my beloved **kotoni**!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Doctor Who.

* * *

Acceptable Conversation

It was rare when Martha got a day off work, though never rare when she wanted one, and rarer still when she could afford one (what with the Doctor holed up in their tiny apartment, tinkering with thingamajigs and whirring whizbees or whatever nonsense he tried and failed to explain to her). Just a shop girl, she was, a simple shop girl! A simple shop girl paid low wages, at that. To think, she was so close to being a doctor back home – from intern to maid to shop girl. Martha was sure the only place left to go was housewife.

So she became a housewife too. Something about 1969 made her feel she ought to. Not because she was a woman, of course; rather because when else would she get the chance in the next five years? While with the Doctor, she couldn't think past a week at most, but she suspected there would come the day she would go from Martha, Protector of the Universe, back to plain old Martha, Almost Doctor. And besides, who in the world would she rather cook for than the Doctor? And in the nineteen-sixties! When mixers were red and round and bright and not because it was retro chic!

Of course, Martha had very little experience cooking. She could make a mean frozen lasagna and do moderately well at anything in a can, but beyond that she was lost. Not that they were privileged with a fully-stocked pantry; with her working all day, "Mister Jones" was in charge of groceries – and she didn't tell him, but he was less than wonderful at it. From the looks of things – canned beans, canned beets, canned… bread? - the Doctor didn't pay much attention when shopping. Apparently he dropped by the B section and called it a day.

Nonetheless, Martha made due, and when she was done she was reasonably proud of herself. She felt quite the part in her knee-length dress, and she even used oven mitts, though she had to omit the apron as they were sorely lacking. By the end of it, there were steaming bowls of chili and green beans and mashed potatoes with gravy. Not everything was the best match, but she doubted the Doctor would notice. When he finally emerged from his bedroom-turned-workshop, she was right in her assumption; he beamed and ate happily and commended her and talked with his mouth full such was his fervor, and never once raised a questioning brow. When their plates were bare, Martha felt as warm inside as the oven, and stuffed with nearly as much food.

He was about to retreat back into his hiding place when she pressed a cup of hot cocoa into his hand and gestured for him to sit back down. "No you don't. Never see you anymore, do I? Always locked away when I'm not at the shop. Now sit down and have a proper talk with me."

"We did just have supper," he pointed out as if it would help his case.

"That wasn't talking, that was smiling and stuffing your gob." He mocked offense, so she offered, "In a charming way."

"All right then," he said, looping fingers through the handle of his cup and placing his other hand over hers. "How was your day, Missus Jones?"

Martha smiled. "Tired and domestic. And how is my Mister Jones – and his little pet project?"

"It's coming along," he offered, his tone detached and light as if he had been talking about it for days. "Always just coming along."

"You'll get it."

He nodded, watching the television in the corner of the room, perhaps observing himself in the grey glass. There was silence for a little while and he didn't even appear to be thinking, just staring, contemplating thinking – this talk was not going at all well.

"Well, let's talk of something else, then." She gently removed her hand from under his to cradle her mug. "There's something I've been curious about."

He looked at her again, reflecting interest.

"Remember a while back, on the _Pentallian_ when you were… possessed, I think it was."

He nodded. "Funny thing, being possessed. Ever happened to you? Bothersome lot, the kind that gets your head all jumbled like a bad –"

"Yes, anyway," she cut across him. Rambling was good, it meant he was feeling talkative, but he could sometimes go on forever and never reach a point – and the cocoa wouldn't stay hot too long. "What was it you were about to say to me, in the med bay? About something happening when you die? Sorta been nagging at my mind."

There was curiosity on his face and a little trace of something else, which he quickly masked by finally sipping his cocoa. "Why's that?"

Martha shrugged, taking a sip herself. "Just curious, like I said. Didn't matter at the time, as we were in mortal peril and I happened to know for a fact you'd be fine." At that he cast her a smile which she returned. "But as far as I can tell, we're not now – in fact, we're more in danger of _living_. So I thought I'd ask, if that's all right."

He was staring off again, just past her or through her, but she could tell he was thinking. Then he smiled and agreed and sipped a bit more enthusiastically – and Martha wasn't sure she wanted to know anymore, because whenever he did that it meant there was something he wasn't _really_ telling her. "We Time Lords, we live a long time, right? Just not always in the same bodies."

He had said it so indistinctly, she almost missed the meaning. "Pardon?"

"Whenever one of us gets close to dying, we regenerate."

The Doctor was inconsistent at best with explanations: sometimes they were confusingly precise and other times infuriatingly vague. Nonetheless, Martha tried, "What, you mean… Like a starfish?"

He gave her an odd look, like she had suddenly sprouted a limb herself. "No." He leaned forward on his chair a bit, as if sharing a great secret, only she could tell he was excited; she imagined she would be too, talking about special abilities, like waving your hand at a dog and yelling "opposable thumb!" At that thought, of course, she felt slightly offended. "It's not so much growing as it is… Well, regenerating! I'll put it simply: If I got old or shot or diseased, and this body couldn't go on, I would regenerate into a new one. New voice, new face, most likely new suit."

Martha thought about that for a moment. "Right. You're saying you'd basically be a different person."

He edged back again, straightening. "Not completely. Same memories, same basic morals and mind. The personality gets quirked through each incarnation but it's the same old wonderful me. The apple never falls far from the tree. Or rather… the tree never grows farther over the other tree."

"What?"

He ruffled his hair a bit. "Too much time in a dark room – buggered up my knack for analogies. Give me a day in the sun and I'll make sense of it properly."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head and smiled. "Sure. So how many times have you regenerated?"

He put down his cup and began counting on his fingers, surely only to instigate another roll of the eyes from her. "Ten," he said at last.

She blinked. "_Ten_?"

"Ten ten-ity ten," he said. "_Dix_ in French."

"The X is silent."

"I think I know my French. I met Madame de Pompadour once. Oh, and King Louis XV, but he's not nearly as much fun at parties. Very somber, doesn't even like banana –"

"Right," she cut him off. "What were your other incarnations like?"

It was his turn to blink, but only for a moment, then he continued as if he hadn't missed a beat, "– daiquiris. Can you believe it? Banana daiquiris! I know they were a bit ahead of their time in 1727, but you give me a man who genuinely does not like banana daiquiris and I will give you a specialist in imaginary people because such a man does not exist. There is never a wrong time for a good banana –"

"Why're you avoiding the question?" She unwrapped her hands from her now cold mug and placed them under her chin, staring at him inquisitively. "You don't have to tell me all of them. How about just one?" She hmmed in thought. "The fifth. That's a good one, I bet."

He looked at her like she'd gone funny in the face. She almost checked herself in the telly's reflection, to be sure she hadn't. Instead she asked, "Come on now, you don't have to tell me anything explicit. How about just… the color of your hair? Was it brown like now?"

"Martha," he said evenly.

"Or did you do other things than fiddle with the TARDIS? Did you play cricket? You played cricket, didn't you? The Doctor, the fifth Doctor, playing cricket!"

"Martha!" And she swore it wasn't the poor lighting when she saw the bloom of pink on his cheeks, peeking just up to his ears. The unshakable Doctor was blushing!

Something like that was rarer than time travel itself, and it brought quite the smile to Martha's face. "What? Is cricket a euphemism for something?"

He stood then, gracelessly gathering up the spoons and sugar, piling them into his cup and then grabbing hers in a marvelous clatter. "If you must know, I wore celery," he mumbled.

She watched as he turned to pile the dishes in the sink, making as much noise as possible. She had to try not to laugh. "Is _that_ a euphemism for something?"

"A stalk!" he turned, wild-eyed in a way she'd never seen him before. Not angry, just… flustered. She liked her flustered Mister Jones, and the way his ears lit up bright red. "A stalk of celery! On my lapel! I wore a stalk of celery on my lapel and did not play cricket! Goodnight, Missus Jones!" And then he marched off with all the dignity of a ruffled cat, down their little hallway and into his workshop, closing the door with an unforgiving bang.

Martha, still seated at the table, did not laugh. She merely got up, filled the sink with water, turned the telly on and smiled like a fool while she washed mashed potatoes and chili off a plate. Next time, she would do the shopping – and maybe, just maybe, she'd pick up a stalk of celery or five for the mister.


End file.
